


Pay Day

by powercrow



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24476380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/powercrow/pseuds/powercrow
Summary: Benoit celebrates the end of a case in his favorite way.
Relationships: Benoit Blanc/Ransom Drysdale
Comments: 1
Kudos: 41





	Pay Day

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Dick or Treat 2020
> 
>  **Notes/Warnings:** There is no relationship (physical or emotional) between Benoit/Ransom, rather Benoit imagines Ransom as a part of his masturbatory musings. 
> 
> Thanks to Liv ([withinmelove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withinmelove/profile)) for editing and encouragement! <3

The Thrombey family had lingered, after. Ransom was long gone; cuffed, arrested, and removed, while Marta had disappeared back into the house, her house hours ago. But still the infernal family had carried on, chasing _what-ifs_ and _how abouts_ ad nauseum until the light had fled and the emergence of the local insect populace had sent them scurrying. 

Walt, loading his child and child-like wife into a distressingly sensible minivan, Richard by cab, Linda in her own vehicle. The Beemer had been left, parked at an angle. Benoit had seen Linda shut the door as she’d passed it, had seen how her hand trailed, gentle, over the bright paint and she’d seemed a mother for the first time, regret and grief in the lines of her body. 

Lieutenant Elliot had promised to have the car towed in the morning, and immediate tasks done, Benoit had gone in search of Marta. He’d been waiting, waiting all day, but he can’t leave without a proper goodbye, the urge to see her settled properly overriding his desire to be gone. 

She’d been in Harlan’s study, wrapped in a blanket, strips of red and orange and cream; large clumsy loops in sharp contrast against the soft-woven lavender of her sweater, the false knife shining in her grip. 

He’d wondered, vaguely, if Meg Thrombey had knit the blanket - she seemed the type, to Stitch and Bitch, gifting the somewhat awkward results to her grandfather’s nurse. 

Marta had looked up at Benoit when he’d entered, Harlan’s mug at her elbow. Her eyes had been dilated, wide in the dimly lit room, and she’d easily flipped the knife, then palmed it, slender, capable hands with neat, short-cut nails. 

“He’d have killed me.” 

Benoit had paused, thinking. His eagerness to be gone, to be in his own space, to attend to himself is nearly choking him, but he’s still needed, just a bit longer. 

_Hand on shoulder, soft wool and big dark eyes, waiting, listening._

But, in the end, he’d had nothing reassuring to say, no alms to offer up. 

“He surely would have.” 

And he’d moved to squeeze Marta’s hand, felt a squeeze back and now, now he’s moving, he’s out the door, closing it with care behind him and leaning against it, gulping air. 

He calls his own cab. It’s smoky, the air close, and Benoit finds himself shifting restlessly on the seat, as bad as a child, even as he murmurs polite conversation by rote and counts the minutes. He’s rented a small house, one of those Air BnBs, and it’s really a cottage more than anything else, set at the back of a larger house. Inside, the air is stale, he’s barely been here, caught up in the whirlwind of the case, the thrill of the chase, and he sets about cracking windows and turning on lamps, filling the rental with the buzz of the night air and warm, dim light. 

He makes no phone calls, checks in with no one. Benoit’s a bachelor, life-long. He knows he’s a cliche of a private eye, married to his work, personal life, a rare fling, and he likes it that way. He’s not chaste, not by any means, but he picks partners seldom and doesn’t linger overlong in their beds. 

Now, though, eagerness is thrilling in his veins, rising inside him, but he has to be, wants to be patient just a little longer, wants to drag it out because it’s been too long now to rush and it’s best to hold things close, to savor them and so he goes to the fridge instead of straight to his bed. 

Dinner is a sandwich, hastily assembled and eaten over the sink because he’s not _that_ patient. Still, he takes his time with eating, enjoying the contrast between soft bread and peppery lettuce, mild cheese and rich, salty meat. He sighs as he finishes, hips pressing gently into the cabinet, an errant dash of mustard swiped up with a fingertip. When he touches it to his tongue, it burns, the mustard spicy and he shudders, and now he’s newly eager. 

Nightly ablutions pass in a haze, nerves buzzing, anticipation through him, sharp and sweet while teeth are cleaned by rote and the sweat of the day scrubbed away and then he’s slipping naked into bed, sighing in pleasure at the luxurious feeling of clean, smooth cotton on bare skin. 

Cold, slick lubricant into his palm, pulling a gasp from him, and then a sigh as he smooths it over his cock. He’s a professional, too experienced and too fucking old to go about with a cockstand in his trousers, and so despite the fact that his eagerness is at fever pitch, has been burning under his skin all day, it still takes a stroke, then a second, and a third before he’s filling, rising and hardening under his smooth, practiced movements. 

He continues to work himself over, long, slow strokes, nothing too provoking, seeking to prolong this promised intimacy as long as he can, while his mind works in tandem, flitting through the case, the little details and clues, re-traveling how each fell into place, building to a beautiful, inevitable crescendo. 

Sure, sex with a partner is good, but at the end of the day, this is one of the things he likes best; his only true love, his muse - that clear, razor-sharp moment when it all falls into place. The one, perfect, shining moment when the pattern entire makes itself known to him, and he is eternal inside it. 

They laude him for it. They retweet him and write him up in the New Yorker, photograph him looking pensive and introspective, and he goes home afterwards and rubs one out, high on his triumph, his success. And the perversity of it all lights him up, thrills him, makes his gut clench a little tighter and _ah_ , yes, his hand moves faster over his cock because that’s _it_ , that’s what he loves and what he’s always chasing, that sweet, ephemeral moment when he has _won_. 

He still remembers his first case, so many years ago; he’d been so young, wet behind the ears, and fumbling every step of the way but he’d solved it, eventually. His client had been furious at his missteps, ready to fire him and he’d been apologetic, laying on his best, smooth n’ sweet Southern when he’d frozen, the pieces clicking to place, one after another, slow and rough at first and then quicker and quicker with greater ease until his mind had been fairly whirling with it all 

_Envelope fat with cash in his hand and thank God because rent is coming due  
A firm handshake and too many white teeth in a grin-grimace-grin  
All the while blood pounding in his temples and between his legs  
_

Back at his vehicle, a worn F150 on its last legs. He’d parked several blocks away that morning, not wanting the client to see him clamber in and out of the truck with its rusted, mismatched panels, had been desperate to convey a smooth, polished facade. He’d been rattling like the truck’s transmission all day, heart racing and sweat pressing through his cheap suit, shiny where the polyester had melted from the iron this morning. 

But, now, as he climbs up into the truck, turns the key, he’s hit by a wave of elation and triumph, followed closely by, oh fuck, arousal so dizzying and sudden it’s like nothing he’s ever felt before. He’d had a girlfriend before, and they’d fucked and it’d been good, but this, this sharp punch of lust in his gut, the swelling of his cock against his thin pants, well. He’d felt alive in a way he’d never felt before, _color-taste-sound_ so bright and clear and sharp like nothing else in this world. 

He’d jacked off then, hurried and furtive and he barely gets his hand on his dick before he’s coming all over himself. He’d been embarrassed, after. Had fumbled himself through clean up with fast food napkins pulled from his glove-box, had driven home fuzzy brained and red cheeked. 

Embarrassment doesn’t stop him though; he solves his next case, and then another one, and the envelopes he receives are thicker, and the percentage of polyester in his clothes decreases. His cases become higher profile, more prestigious, stakes higher if he fails but he never does and he ends every case in the same way, gasping in pleasure while his hand moves on himself, hot and sure and high on victory. 

And here he is now, a grown man, no, nearly a senior citizen now, and this still hasn’t changed. His lube is more expensive, smooth and long-lasting and _ah_ that brings him back to today - the Thrombey family with too much money and not enough sense and he’d won, in the end, but he’d nearly failed, failed Marta and it all flickers beneath his tightly closed eyes. 

Harlan, fixed gaze and wide-open throat and sweet-tart-sweet Marta, all tangled up with her kind heart and blood stained sneakers. The vivid, saturated hues of the Thrombeys against the topsy-turvy house and the Drysdale boy with his cold beauty and it’d been a wonder he hadn’t cut his soft, expensive clothes to pieces against his knife-like edges, hadn’t stained cloth with his rotten heart, full of arrogance, just begging to be brought down. 

And oh, yeah, that’s a good thought, and he makes himself slow down while his mind wanders this new path, and _oh_ his cock likes that, twitches in his slick grip at the thought of being introduced to young Hugh in a more...intimate fashion. A mouth like that, full of vitriol, and the mind behind it...made for sin and Benoit would have liked to show him that, compel him to put it to better use than his chosen purpose and _fuck_ it’s almost too much and he has to tighten his grip, breathing deep. The sheet over him is too hot, cloying and he thrashes, impatient, flinging it off and he devotes just a second more to Hugh, his cock disappearing between red lips, tears thick in dark lashes and hollow cheeks; arms straining behind a broad back all wrapped in soft, white wool and _yes_ it’s still good, still good despite his almost-failure and his hand moves faster, twisting, foreskin pulling over the head of his cock and it’s slick and messy with lube and precome and sometimes he likes to indulge himself with a finger (or two) inside himself, rocking gently to orgasm, gripping tight even as he thrusts into his own hand, but he has no time for that now, is too worked up. 

And all too soon he’s coming hard, belly clenching, spine curling and pleasure shooting through him and he shakes with it, tries to stroke himself through it, hold on as long as possible before he collapses, limp and sweat soaked in the dark. When he finally stirs his limbs, his whole body is heavy and loose and he cleans himself in a desultory fashion, handkerchief soft against his shaft, his damp thighs and belly. Benoit feels...good. The sheets are a comfort again as he burrows into them, and he’s newly aware of the sounds of night - the buzz of electrical lines and the frogs, singing in their own search for ecstasy. He’d get up, shut the windows, but his brain is blown out, soft with release and instead he drifts off, between that thought and the next. 


End file.
